The Artist

I think I’m painting myself
Mixing colours in your hands
Blindly searching for the yellow, for the orange
For that which must matter
For that…

I know you can still see the brush-strokes on my skin
I’ll be better, I will
In time
When my left hand won’t be as clumsy anymore
With black paint
When I learn to hide the shadows
Into light

When water will stop flowing across my canvas,
I’ll be able to see
you
watching me

With a paint-brush in your hands